The Corner Boy

Willie is the Corner Boy,
Surveyor of the street,
Tenant of the Bog Lane breeze
Defector to defeat.
Nally’s is the meeting place,
Parlor of the free,
Where men and boys of idle grace
assemble and agree.


Willie knows the business
of every passer-by,
The jobber with his soft tan boot,
The knacker, by his tie.
He scans the moving face
and reads it like a map,
He can measure person-panic
by the angle of a cap.


He knows the name of every child
from Kenagh to Moyvore,
The number-plate of every car,
The price of every whore.
The chancey men who work and draw
to feed the hungry horde,
And every lover’s lover
who pays homage to the Lord.


Willie is the Corner Boy
who scorns gain and loss,
A crutch for passing cripple,
A Christ for every cross.
A thousand woven wrinkles
are his testaments of care,
And still the mobile masses pass
as if he weren’t there.

That's where the magic is.

When dusk his solemn curtain draws

The grey mare drinks, a welcome pause,

And man accepts his man-made flaws

That’s where the magic is.

When baby toddles and falls down

When face forgets to practise frown

And Niamh’s dress becomes a gown

That’s where the magic is.

When fresh clay overcomes the stench

Of rotting soldier in the trench

A heartless judge comes off the bench

That’s where the magic is.

When weeping willow weeps no more

The storyteller spills his store

Of flotsam on mind’s island shore

That’s where the magic is.

When green and brown and yellow blend

And on each other must depend

To dress the hawthorn on the bend

That’s where the magic is.

When man and brother think out loud

And shelter from a common cloud

Then pride is taken from the proud

That’s where the magic is.

(Dedicated to Turquoise and 'Dirt Roads In April'.)

Heaven Or Hell

I ponder the clay, earth’s memory mark,

And hear the dawn chorus of linnet and lark,

And say to myself, I knew this man well,

But is his brave soul in Heaven or Hell?

When he was with us he made his own rules,

He scorned all the Clergy; “those poker-faced fools”.

He claimed that all mortals were spits in the night,

Conception considered could never be right.

No question of man could merit reply

When no one could forecast the best time to die.

He dismissed all book learning as squandering time

When monkey and parrot were able to mime.

He set his own standards of right and of wrong,

In mainstream of morals he didn’t belong.

But the light in his eyes when he felt as in dream

The time textured touch of a stone in a stream.

Or the pleasure he got that he couldn’t explain

When he dangled his toes at the edge of a drain.

And I knew that he knew the beggar man’s lot

Of rejection and scorn, and striving for what?

He shared the blue hunger of tinker and waif,

That need to be needed, that greed to be safe.

And the way that he’d smile at the game of a child,

Or the fire in his face when he preached whiskey wild

Of the hypocrites, two-faced, and liars abroad,

Who sacrificed souls to a relative God.

And all that was in him was savage and free

And pure as the earth that holds him for Thee,

And now his own service, with resonant bell,

Yet I know he’s in Heaven,

He’s a long time left Hell.




("The nights were dark and lonely, the days were lonely too,
But now they're oh so bright, cause all i see is you")

Fame on Friday

They all bowed low

As I passed by,                                

And called me Lord

Much hue and cry.

Followers

From many lands

Came to listen

Kissed my hands.

Soon all changed

The rabble, boss:

Nailed me

To a wooden cross.

The laurel crown

Above my head

Has fallen down

Its leaves are dead

And no one comes

Here, night or day,

Not even to sweep

The leaves away.

Nan And Me

I

      I skipped from supper

      on the bank of the stream

      near the bridge at

      Mulvey House.

      Cheeky, I peeked through

      The clean clear window

      And saw Nan sitting,

      Quiet as my neighbour,

      mouse.

      She looked with kind eyes

      But a little sad, I felt,

      As if remembering

      a forgotten loss,

      her mother perhaps,

      or the place of her youth,

      somewhere a carved stone

      overgrown with moss.

      Her heart is too noble

      to be this heavy,

      Her shoulders too strong

      to bend with the load

      of troubles of others,

      my family has known

      generations of humans

      she’s apart, a special one

      a queen among mothers.

      I’ve had my family too,

      Long gone, they never come back

      to visit the nest on the bend,

      In this Nan is blessed,

      she has one more addition,

      She’s become my guardian and friend.